The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (12 page)

“Lucy P. Simmons,” she said, “an idle mind is certainly not one of your faults—I like that about you. But anyway … first, Mr. Pugsley, as you refer to him. I can assure you, he's been well cared for. The little imp is eagerly waiting for you back at my cottage. That is where we're going—to my cottage, which sits on the northern bay shore of Oxhead Bluffs.”

I sat quietly, digesting this information. You see, our little peninsula, the one where our house sat, was on the south shore of the area that was called, by the locals anyway, Oxhead Bluffs. It was so named because of the way the land extended into the Atlantic in a pair of curved horn shapes, the whole landmass resembling the head of an ox. The two horns, so to speak, curved round to form a small, sheltered bay. Our home sat on the southern horn, ocean side. It seemed that Marni's cottage was situated on the northern horn, bay side. It was an area Father and I had sailed by many times.

“So,” I ventured, “why are you taking me there, and what will you teach me?”

Marni stared off into the distance, her lips pursed. She took a moment before replying, as if gathering her thoughts.

“I was born with a gift,” she began, “an uncanny talent for sensing trouble. This sort of sixth sense of mine has a way of leading me to people who are
suffering somehow—usually children. Many times I am led to a place before the trouble even begins. That was the case with you, of course. I found myself here, and then there was the accident.”

“You were there?” I gasped. “Wait—was it you who saved me? It was you, wasn't it?”

She paused, perhaps considering how much she should share. “You're here now and you're safe. That's what matters most.” She patted my hand. “More often than not, once I'm drawn to a place, I proceed by instinct alone. A week ago I could not have predicted that I'd be here in this uncomfortable frock, in a borrowed carriage, masquerading as Miss Maude. But when the call comes, I've learned to trust and follow the impulse. That is how I am able to intercede at precisely the right time, in precisely the right way.” A cloud passed slowly across her face, sharpening her strong features. “Only once has the gift failed me.” The faraway look faded, and she smiled. “But that is in the past. And here we are.”

“So, that is how you pulled me out of the water?” I knew I was fairly gushing, but I could not hold the words inside. “How you were on the path just in time to rescue Mr. Pugsley?”

“Yes,” she said. “And this is also why I cannot tell you what I will teach you. I trust, as I hope you
will, that I will be led to teach you whatever it is that will benefit you most, no matter how unlikely it may seem.”

I nodded, thinking about the fact that her timing and her intervention so far had been impeccable. I also, however, contemplated the fact that she had been in the area at the time of the accident. The image of the painting of Ulysses, the Brute's words about the siren, the sea witch, flashed across my mind. A skeptical voice in my head suggested that perhaps her eagerness to help me might be a guilty reaction to her role as a siren in Father's accident. This I quickly pushed aside, hoping against hope that the voice in my head was wrong.

We rode silently for quite a while until we came to a small carriage house. Marni guided the horse into the yard and slowed to a stop.

“Time to return my neighbor Mr. Mathers's horse and carriage,” she said, and in a moment or two had removed the mare's harness and tethered her to a hitching post set beneath the shade of a large tree. “From here we walk. It isn't too far, I assure you.”

We walked along the shore road for what felt like miles, lugging my trunk between us. Finally we came to a small cottage clad in graying clapboard, wild roses tumbling over the lopsided, falling-down
fence out in front. It sat overlooking the bay on a small rise of wild yellow-green grass.

“Here we are then,” she said. We climbed the hill to the yard and looked out over the water. A ramshackle wooden set of stairs connected the house to an equally precarious-looking dock, where a good-sized boat was tied. Amazingly, from where we stood I could see clear across the bay, the turrets of my house jutting up above the pines that surrounded it like tall, dark soldiers. The sight of it, distant as it was, bolstered my spirits.

At that moment the front door swung open and Mr. Pugsley fairly flew toward me, his short, stumpy legs a blur of motion beneath his stocky little body. I was on my knees in an instant, and Mr. Pugsley covered me with sloppy kisses, grunting, snorting, and wheezing like a happy little pig.

“Mr. Pugsley,” I repeated over and over, stroking him and showering him with kisses of my own. “Mr. Pugsley, I'm
so
glad to see you!” I tried, quite unsuccessfully, to fight back the tears that brimmed in my eyes, blurring my vision.

There was a sudden flurry of activity at the front door, and I glanced up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. The incongruous sight on the front steps jarred me, and I stared, bewildered, at the small group of children staring back at me. There
were three of them: a tall, rangy black-haired boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, and another, smaller version, seven or eight years old, I'd guess. These two looked familiar to me, but try as I might, I could not recall when or where I had seen them. A small blond-haired girl of about four clung to the biggest boy's ragged trousers. I had never seen her before, of that much I was certain. But the other two … they triggered a vague memory that I just could not seem to place.

“Lucy, dear,” Marni began, “stop gaping and say hello to Walter, George, and Annie Perkins.”

Perkins … Perkins … the name rang a bell.

“Hello,” I said, thrusting my hand toward them, “Pleased to make your acquai—”

The tall boy, Walter, interrupted me. “We've seen each other before, but I don't suppose you'd remember.”

He made no move to take my hand, which I awkwardly dropped to my side. “Well, you do look familiar,” I said apologetically, “but I can't quite recall where we might have met.” I glanced at Marni, looking for help, but she was already making her way inside.

Walter stared at me rather coldly and said nothing. His little brother, George, looked away uncomfortably, and Annie, taking her cue from
Walter, stuck out her bottom lip at me in a most insolent manner. “And that's
our
dog,” she said, bending over and pulling Mr. Pugsley toward her. Not wanting to contradict her, at least not yet, I held my tongue, understanding fully how quickly one could become attached to him. We could settle that later. I turned my attention back to Walter.

“Perhaps we met at the boat club?” I ventured, thinking of the many days Father had taken Mother and me over there for a fancy luncheon or a formal dinner.

Walter snorted. “Do we look like the sort who would belong to a
boat club
?” he asked.

I could feel the color rise to my cheeks. I'd insulted him, of course. It was obvious, from his shabby attire to his overgrown hair, that he was not of the same class as Father and Mother and me, that he wouldn't travel in the same circles. Feeling both embarrassed and defensive, I scoured my memory again. Where in the world had I seen them before? What was it about them that made me feel so uncomfortable?

Suddenly it came to me! It wasn't during the term before the accident, or even during the past academic
year
, for that matter. No, it had to have been more than a year ago that those two, Walter and his brother, George, had shown up at school.

I remembered the day now, how they arrived late, barefoot and dirty, and how they were ushered to the back of the one-room schoolhouse until Miss Randolph could decide what to do with them. Through hushed whispers I learned that they came from a dirt-poor fishing family, that their mother was dead. They stared about our classroom in a belligerent manner, daring anyone to meet their gaze. They were reputed to be unruly and dangerous. We steered clear of them, avoided their hostile stares, and for the most part pretended they weren't there.

As I recall, they didn't last long at school—they had both been placed with the youngest of students in the pre-primer class, and the older one, Walter, had bloodied a number of noses during recess time, successfully warding off the taunts of the other older boys.

“It was at school,” I said softly. “You came to school for a while, didn't you?” This I offered in a most polite voice, hoping to feign ignorance regarding their school troubles. It was an awkward situation to be in, having to speak to someone you had previously chosen to ignore. I continued on, desperately trying to fill Walter's brooding silence. “I remember you didn't stay long. Did you transfer to another school?”

As soon as I spoke, I knew I'd made the situation even worse.

“Yes, Miss High and Mighty,” he said sarcastically, “George and I transferred to a private prep school; didn't we, Georgie?”

George, apparently unaware of the subtleties of sarcasm, looked at his brother wide-eyed. “I don't remember that at all,” George said, a concerned tone to his high-pitched voice. “I only remember the mean school. Is that the one you're talking about?” Walter ignored him, glaring at me instead.

Meanwhile, Marni, who appeared quite ignorant of my discomfort, had changed out of her schoolmarm dress and into a pair of denim overalls. Apparently no one else was the least surprised at the sight of her dressed in such an absurd way, busying herself with chores, bustling in and out of the house. I had never in my life seen a woman dressed like that! But, despite my surprise, what I really felt most was anger at her for leaving me there with Walter and, at the same time, shame.

I bit my lower lip, deciding what to do next. Walter had every right to be angry. He had been virtually invisible to me, like something unpleasant that washed ashore, something you didn't touch, something that the tide would eventually carry away. That was not going to be the case this time, I
was sure. I took a deep breath and thrust my hand at Walter again. George looked seriously from one of us to the other.

“Walter,” I said, “I'm very sorry. I was unkind to you. I didn't know any better then, is all; I just didn't think....”

“Most people don't,” said Walter. I could see he was softening a bit, but he still made no move to take my hand. I let my hand drop, but pressed on.

“I understand a lot more now than I did back then,” I said, realizing as the words tumbled out that it was true. It was as though I'd left that other world completely behind. To my horror I felt tears sting the backs of my eyes and I fought to control the quivering of my bottom lip.

He avoided looking at me directly, a fact for which I was most grateful. “Marni told us you lost your parents,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” I replied. I blinked hard, raised my chin, and thrust my hand at him one last time. “Do you accept my apology or not?”

Walter took my hand then and, as if to ward off my tears, gave it a firm shake. Apparently taking their cue from their brother, George and Annie seemed to relax, their defensive expressions giving way to wide-eyed curiosity. Then they followed Walter in offering their hands.

“We lost our mother, too,” Walter said. George kicked at the ground and looked down.

“I don't even remember her, though,” said Annie. “She died when I was borned; right, Walter?” Walter nodded. I couldn't help but notice the tender way he placed his hand on her narrow shoulders, the almost imperceptible squeeze that he gave her.

“I'm very sorry,” I said again, “for everything.” Walter made a dismissive waving motion with his hand and looked away, his cheeks coloring.

“Why don't you have a look inside the cottage?” he asked, and before I could answer, he was leading the way in. I followed along, grateful for something to do besides talk.

The next half hour or so was spent settling me in. Marni ushered me throughout the cottage, pointing out this and that, George and Annie loping along behind us, watching my every move. The cottage itself was small and plain, the floors of wide-planked, pale pine, the walls whitewashed to a light sunny beige. There was little in the way of furnishings—a simple oak table, long and rectangular, in one corner of the room, surrounded by six odd chairs. At the opposite end of the room a stark, straight-backed bench resembling a church pew ran the length of the wall. It was
not the furnishings, but rather the odd collections of peculiar objects and knickknacks that caught my eye. Large dried sea stars stood along the window ledges, their long bumpy arms reaching toward the wavy glass windowpanes. A huge conch shell claimed a spot in the center of the table, its weathered white armor curled around insides as delicate and pink as the skin of a baby.

And there were not only gifts from the sea adorning the place, but oddities that must have come from faraway, exotic places: a blood-red carpet splashed with jagged-edged geometric designs in gemstone shades of blue, green, gold, and purple. A silken shawl in sunset colors was draped around an overstuffed chair like a brazen ball gown, its fabric a tumble of paisley tied at the edges in long, exquisite golden fringe. A small corner cabinet held a collection of brilliant orbs of glass that sparkled and blinked in the sunlight like a group of wide-open, curious eyes.

Walter carried my trunk to a small room, and I followed him.